


shoot the sunshine into my veins (Make It Work Remix)

by everybodylies



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-14
Updated: 2017-01-14
Packaged: 2018-08-28 18:27:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8457187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/everybodylies/pseuds/everybodylies
Summary: Thousands of pre-teen girls around the world rejoiced earlier this month when famed punk band The Detectives announced that their two year hiatus was finally over. You may know the band from singles such as: Bee’s Knees, Partners for Life, and Like a Drug.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Make It Work (The Runyonland Music Remix)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8360413) by [sanguinity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanguinity/pseuds/sanguinity). 



> I can’t believe I wrote over 3k words for what is basically a Fall Out Boy AU songfic.  
> Shout out to Pete Wentz: everything I know about writing emo song lyrics I learned from you.

**Can The Detectives Solve Their Own Murders Before It’s Too Late?**  
_January, 15th, 2016_  
by Mark L. Witter

Thousands of pre-teen girls around the world rejoiced earlier this month when famed punk band The Detectives announced that their two year hiatus was finally over. You may know the band from singles such as: _Bee’s Knees,_ _Partners for Life_ , and _Like a Drug_.

The band, made up of Marcus Bell (lead vocals and rhythm guitar), Joan Watson (lead guitar), Alfredo Llamosa (bass guitar), and Sherlock Holmes (drums), originally burst onto the scene in 2010. Fans quickly fell in love with Marcus Bell’s effortless charisma and powerful singing voice, and Sherlock Holmes’ somber, poetic lyrics. After winning the People’s Choice Award for Best New Artist, the world was their’s for the taking.

Unfortunately, success proved to be too much to handle for The Detectives. Band members Holmes and Llamosa both entered rehab for substance abuse multiple times. There were reports of disputes between band members that occasionally escalated to full-on feuds. In the last few months before the disbandment, it appeared that Llamosa was managing to stay clean, but Holmes, following a very messy breakup with Hollywood actress Jamie Moriarty, entered a downward spiral.

The final death-knell for the band came after they played a show in Los Angeles, when Holmes reportedly went on a manic, drug-fueled rampage backstage and had a subsequent breakdown. Rumors are that the rampage was spurred by a disagreement about song lyrics. The band cancelled all remaining tour dates, then announced their hiatus five days later.

In the two years since, Holmes has kept a low profile, and sources say he is now drug-free. Other band members accomplished more during the hiatus; Bell released a solo album that saw a moderate success in sales, Watson did charity work with the homeless in New York City, and Llamosa wrote a book and started his own YouTube channel.

And now The Detectives are back. But will this reunion last? Rumors are swirling that the band did not end their hiatus willingly. Sources say that they were forced out of hiatus by their profit-seeking record label and that some band members are still feuding. Well, let’s hope they’ve worked it all out. The band has a dozen performances lined up across the country and an album due by the end of the year. If they’re still not getting along, it’s going to be a long couple of months.

 

 _the needle in your veins_  
_the blood rushing in your ears_  
_you’re gonna fall, baby_  
_and no one’s gonna catch you_

 

He’s always hated being on the road. Not the actual traveling part, not the never staying in the same place for more than a few days part—he doesn’t mind that. He just hates being crammed into a tiny metal box, watching mile after mile of nondescript highway fly by through the dirty windows. They don’t even stop to go to the bathroom, since they can go on the bus. He’s trapped.

For now, he passes the time by writing lyrics in his notebook, though it’s hard to be inspired by anything around him. Marcus sits on the other side of the bus, headphones on and reading a book. They’ve been deliberately avoiding eye contact. All the lyrics Sherlock’s written in the last twenty minutes are about feeling cold or deathly awkward.

Joan abruptly gets up from the front of the bus. Eyes alight with anger, she stalks toward Sherlock, and he shrinks back into his seat.

“Can you believe this?” She throws a magazine onto the table before Sherlock and curls up next to him on the couch. “You should sue them.”

It takes a moment for Sherlock to register that Joan’s ire is not directed at him. He briefly looks up from his notebook. “And what has got you so up in arms?”

“Have you read it? ‘A manic, drug-fueled rampage and subsequent breakdown?’ That’s—”

“Pretty much what happened,” Marcus cuts in from across the bus. His voice is bitter. “I don’t see a problem with it.”

“Marcus,” Joan sighs. She turns to Sherlock, sounding pained. “Addiction is a disease. They shouldn’t be sensationalizing it for a profit.”

He feels the need to look away from Joan; her eyes are too bright, and her righteous fury in his defense is comforting, but undeserved. Shrugging, he replies, “Marcus is correct. That is what occurred, or at least, close enough to the truth that it would not be considered libel. And, wouldn’t you say that the truth was worse? We should be glad that this version is the one they have chosen to print.”

Losing steam, Joan only responds with a dissatisfied “Hm.”

“This is the tabloids’ _modus operandi_ , Joan. We are all accustomed to it by now, are we not?”

“I guess it’s been a while,” Joan says. Her expression softens, though she’s still tapping the window with her fingers in agitation. “Two years to be exact.” She gives Sherlock a sad smile and rubs his arm. “Well, we know the truth about you. That’s gotta be enough.”

 _I wish you didn’t_ , Sherlock thinks and then stops. _That could be good_. He reopens his notebook and scribbles down a few lines.

Joan watches him write for a few moments, a contemplative look on her face. Then, voice low, she murmurs, “Hey.” She leans closer. “You need to fix things with Marcus.”

He squirms in his seat, frustrated. Does she think he hasn’t tried? “It’s unfixable,” he tells Joan. “I’ve already apologized multiple times, and he refuses to acknowledge it. What else are you proposing that I do?”

“You can’t just give up,” Joan whispers, outraged. “How are you guys gonna write more songs? You’ll just slide any lyrics you write under Marcus’ door?”

“I fail to see the problem with that,” he mutters. But truthfully, the prospect of never writing a song with Marcus ever again, of never restoring their friendship to the state it once was, fills him with dread. He tries to push it away. 

His response earns him a heated stare from Joan. “That magazine article was right about one thing,” Joan says. “We’re a band again, and we’re going to be spending a lot of time together. So you’d better start getting along. You guys are best friends. You should act like it.”

 

 _i wish you didn’t know_  
_everything about me_  
_but you’re still here anyway_  
_i think what you do is amazing_

 

It’s true that Sherlock went on a drug-fueled rant. He’d penned a scathing set of lyrics about Jamie and Marcus refused to use them in a song. ( _“It’s cruel, Sherlock.” “Don’t be ridiculous, no one will know who the song is about.” “Are you kidding me? Of course, they will!”_ ) But rants like those were actually old news by then. Sherlock got into arguments with other band members on average once a week.

Here’s what really happened: after Sherlock’s third stint in rehab, he started stashing his drugs in one of Marcus’s spare guitar cases. Then Sherlock pissed off one of the local police precincts for the last time, and, when the tour bus was searched, the police predictably found the heroin inside Marcus’s property.

It took hours and hours of interrogation before they managed to convince the police that the drugs were Sherlock’s, not Marcus’s. After that, Sherlock’s father hired a bunch of fancy lawyers to get Sherlock off the hook and keep everything hush-hush. But the damage was already done.

 

 _she’s a spider in her web_  
_an enigma wrapped in mystery_  
_she’s someone i don’t know anymore_  
_she should drive off a bridge_

 

There’s an envelope slid under Marcus’ hotel room door. He opens it to find several pages of lined paper, covered with Sherlock’s familiar messy scrawl. Lyrics. He feels the impulse to rip them up and toss them into the trash. But the label does need new songs, and as he learned with the release of his solo album, no one wants to hear Marcus' words.

Marcus, fighting a wave of resentment and jealousy, tosses the envelope onto the desk. In an effort to distract himself, he leaves the room and crosses the hallway to knock on Alfredo’s door.

“Hey, Marcus,” Alfredo says. “What’s up?”

They’ve got three days off in Chicago before their next tour destination. A few years ago, Alfredo and Sherlock would have been spending this time getting high and partying their asses off, but those days seem to be long gone.

“You getting dinner soon?”

“Yeah, I was gonna get a burger and then head to an NA meeting. You wanna come? It’s an open one.”

“Sure.”

They find a little diner in the South Side and sit down. Marcus wolfs down his food pretty quickly, but Alfredo only makes it through a quarter of his burger. His eyes are dark under the brim of his cap.

Marcus frowns. “You okay, man?”

“Don’t worry about me,” Alfredo says, waving a hand. “I’m just a little tired. Forgot what it was like to be on tour. And Chicago brings back a lot bad memories for me. Scored a lotta dope on these streets.” He nods to Marcus. “Thanks for coming with me, actually. I could use the company.”

Marcus purses his lips, as his hatred for the label renews itself. The label’s lawyers had found some hidden clause in the contract, which they then used to force the band to get back to work, regardless of how not ready any of them really were. At least, the fans were ecstatic to see them back. That almost made it all worth it.

“Yeah, sure,” he says. Then he has a sudden fit of curiosity. “What’s it like being sober?”

Alfredo leans back and lets out a long sigh. “Honestly? It’s a fuckin’ bummer, man.” He pauses, then shakes his head. “Nah, I take that back. You caught me on a bad day.” He takes a sip of his drink, and his eyes lose focus. “Look, sobriety—it’s everything to me. I’m never going back. But it’s tiring, repetitive. You never win, you’re never done. You just keep going until you don’t.” Then his face breaks into a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “But enough about me. How are you?”

 

 _you’ve seen me at my worst_  
_would you believe me if i told you_  
_that was another man_  
_dr. jekyll and mr. hyde_

 

“Thank you, Cleveland! Good night!”

The crowd cheers so loudly that it’s deafening, even through Sherlock’s earplugs. He feels tingly, buzzed, like he’s going to vibrate out of his skin. He’d forgotten how fun playing live music could be sober. He puts down his drumsticks and chugs the rest of his water bottle while he walks off-stage. As he wipes the sweat off his face, Joan comes running up and gives him a hug from behind.

“That show was great!” she says, giddy. “The audience loved us.”

“It was good,” Sherlock admits. He’d felt a connection to his fellow band members, one he hadn’t felt in a long time. Everyone was on beat, soloing and riffing along to the rhythm of his foot on the bass drum.

Alfredo walks up and gives Joan a high-five. “Damn, Joan, that solo was unbelievable! Marcus, my man! Where the Hell did that high G come from? You nailed it.”

Marcus grins. “No idea, really. I was just feelin’ it.”

“Hey, Joan,” Alfredo says, “you gotta show me that riff you played near the end of your solo.”

Joan walks away with Alfredo, leaving Sherlock alone with Marcus. Sherlock thinks this should probably feel awkward, but they’re both still high on adrenaline from the concert, and besides, playing together was always when they got along best.

“Thanks for keeping up with me during _Murder Mystery._ ” Marcus is still grinning, and Sherlock thinks, _this is better than you deserve_. “I lost the beat there for a second.”

“You did a spectacular job, yourself,” Sherlock says, waving his hands around fervently. “Truly. Your best performance this year.”

Marcus stops, and his eyes dim a little—on the verge of closing himself off again, though not quite yet. He stares at Sherlock warily. Then he says, “Yeah, well it took a lot out of me. My voice is pretty drained.”

“Do you think it can last three more songs?” Sherlock cocks his head towards the stage. The sound of the crowd cheering grows louder and louder. “It would appear that we are due for an encore.”

Marcus glances towards the stage and takes another sip of water. “I’d hate to disappoint,” he says, sounding tired, yet excited. He raises his eyebrows at Sherlock. “ _Heroine, Bee’s Knees,_ and _The Tortoise_?”

“No, not _Bee’s Knees_ ,” Sherlock says. He can feel in his heart something starting to take root. A tiny bit of hope, pushing up through the mud. “The crowd skewed older tonight. _Conviction_ is a a better choice.”

Marcus smiles faintly. “ _Conviction_ it is,” he agrees.

 

 _you and me, baby_  
_we may be fighting_  
_but we look damn good_  
_in the right lighting_

 

“I’m sorry Sherlock, it’s out of my hands.”

“Isn’t everything? These interviews, the album, the tour? Reuniting the band? Every time it’s ‘out of your hands.’ What use are you as a manager if all you’re going to be is a mouthpiece for the label?”

Marcus peers through the window to the outside from where the shouting is originating. Sherlock is agitated, pacing back and forth in front of Gregson.

“What’s going on out there?” Marcus asks Joan.

Joan shakes her head. “Label wants Sherlock to do a bunch of TV interviews, show the world how clean he is.”

“Okay?” Marcus says, trying not to sound insensitive. “What’s the problem?”

“They want him to do the interviews solo,” Joan explains, “so he can’t hide behind us, like he usually does.”

Marcus sighs, as a memory comes to him. Backstage at Good Morning America. They were just starting to make it big, back when one of their songs charting #35 on the Billboard Hot 100 was a big deal. Sherlock had more hair, then. A messy flop of a thing that he never brushed.

“Unbelievable,” Sherlock muttered to Marcus under his breath.

“What?”

“That we have to engage in this whole charade to sell more albums. People should not be buying our music based on how well we interview or how attractive they find us. They should simply listen to the music.”

Marcus rolled his eyes. “Sherlock, the interview gets us more exposure. More exposure means more people listening.” He paused and looked at his friend. Sherlock was putting on a big show, but underneath it all, his eyes were anxious. Marcus put a comforting hand on Sherlock’s arm. “Look, just let me do all the talking.”

He’s brought back to the present when Sherlock storms past Marcus and Joan, through the curtains towards the back.

Joan sighs. “I’ll go talk to him.”

“No,” Marcus says, and surprises himself. “I’ll do it.”

He follows Sherlock to the back and finds the other man laying on his top bunk, staring at the ceiling. Sherlock looks up when Marcus enters, then tenses when he realizes who it is. Marcus just lies down on the bunk below Sherlock and doesn’t say anything for a minute or two.

It’s easy to be mad at Sherlock. The man is rude, abrasive, irresponsible. But the truth is that Sherlock needs him more than he needs Sherlock. And there was a time, before the drugs, before the fame, when they got along as easy as pie. When they were best friends. He misses that. Maybe… it’s time to let this grudge die.

“Remember when we started this band?” Marcus asks eventually. “Jamming together in my garage? We were so convinced we’d make it big, just the two of us. Like the White Stripes.”

Sherlock’s quiet, and Marcus can tell he’s turning over the words in his head.

“You could have made it on your own,” he says, after a minute.

Marcus laughs sourly. “Without your lyrics?”

“With your vocals? You’d have people lining up to write for you.”

“But I’d want to do it myself. And I did try. You listened to my record, didn’t you?”

“Of course, I did,” Sherlock says, sounding so indignant that it makes Marcus smirk.

“And?”

“I was outraged. Utterly offended.”

“What—”

“That you only thought up all of those elegant melodies when our band was broken up and not before, nor after. I was horribly jealous.”

“Alright, but you’re biased. And maybe the music was good, but that was it. I tried with the lyrics, and I couldn’t be you,” Marcus says. It hurts to say, but at the same time, it feels good to admit it. “All the critics said so.”

“Marcus,” Sherlock scolds. “You cannot base your self-worth off the words of critics. What do I always say about them? Those who—”

“Those who cannot do, review,” Marcus finishes for him. He finds himself smiling. “Yeah, yeah, Sherlock, I remember.”

“People purchased your music and enjoyed it. That is all that matters.”

“Okay, Sherlock. Whatever you say.”

Sherlock is silent again, thinking deeply. Then he says, “I am sorry. For getting you arrested.”

Marcus nods. He feels lighter. It’s time for a new beginning, and he can see that, now. He says, “I’m sorry, too.”

Caught off-guard, Sherlock leans down from the top bunk to peer at Marcus. “You? What for?”

“I dunno. Just sitting back and letting it all happen, I guess. After your first stint in rehab, I probably should have known that a stressful country-wide tour wasn’t the best environment for you.”

“It wasn’t you,” Sherlock says firmly. “It was the label forcing us onto that tour.”

“But I could have said something. Done something. It was my fault, too.” He shakes his head and sits up. Sherlock is still upside down, staring at him. Marcus says, “Hey, wanna write a song?”

 

 _my faith in you is_  
_unshakeable_  
_my love for you is_  
_unbreakable_  
_the pleasure_  
_was all mine_

 

He’s always hated television interviews. The bright spotlights, the cakey makeup. Forced to laugh along with the interviewer’s jokes, forced to participate in this utter farce of human interaction. And of course, there’s the very likely possibility that he says something foolish that gets taken out of contact and replayed on every social media site known to man, making him a social pariah.

“Relax, Sherlock,” Joan says, grabbing his fidgety fingers to calm them. “Don’t overthink it. Just be honest. It’s not the end of the world.”

Sherlock’s face twitches. “You know best, Joan,” he mutters, only half sarcastically.

“Damn right,” she says, voice warm. Her eyes twinkle at him, and his heart starts hammering in his chest.

The interview goes surprisingly well, probably because expectations are so low. The last time most of these people saw him, he was drowning in heroin, so the fact that he’s even clean shaven and stringing together coherent sentences is impressive.

“We’re just about out of time. But before we wrap it up, I do have one more question.” The interviewer smiles. “And I’m sure you know what it is, since everyone always asks you the same one.”

Sherlock chuckles, and it’s genuine. “Yes, I, uh, suppose I do.”

“One of The Detectives’ most well-known songs is _The Person You Love Most in the World_ from your third album. The lyrics from that song are just so… heartfelt, so moving. For years, your fans have been theorizing about who inspired this song, going through ex after ex, and in the past, you’ve always declined to reveal exactly who it is. Has that changed in the last the past few years? Will you tell us?”

He glances at Joan, watching him from off-stage. She gives him a supportive smile, and it spurs him on.

“I still hold that the draw of music lies in its universality. Anyone can listen to any song and feel a personal connection with it. So, as I have done, I will decline to answer your question because I feel that it matters not about whom the song is.” The audience sighs audibly. “But I will say this: the feelings I had for the subject of that song, I still continue to feel, and always will.” He nods at the interviewer. “Thank you for having me.”

 

 _i named my heart after you_  
_i named the moon after you_  
_i am better with you_

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Interlude](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8590444) by [grrlpup](https://archiveofourown.org/users/grrlpup/pseuds/grrlpup)




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